The Golden Harbor
The ink was still wet on the ledger when I first noticed the stain, a dark, viscous smear that looked less like an error and more like a bruise forming under the skin of the paper. I was sitting in the high-backed chair in the east wing, the one that creaked with every subtle shift of my weight, watching the dust motes dance in the shaft of light that cut through the heavy velvet drapes, and I...
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